


солдат

by Kiyuomi



Series: JJBek Week 2017 [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Coming of Age, Concussions, Fluff, Gen, Injury, Lowkey Language Kink, M/M, Occurs during Canada Training, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Young!Otabek, Youong!JJ, rinkmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-17 22:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11860659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyuomi/pseuds/Kiyuomi
Summary: JJBek Day 2: RivalryOtabek is a soldier, not a skater. But he wants to fly.





	1. Chapter 1

                Step. Crunch.

                Step. Crunch.

                Breathe, and at least try to pretend you can _fly_.

                Every breath is a dizzying gasp, limbs worn raw and muscles pulled, stretched to the point of exhaustion, because it’s impossible to bend anymore, go any further, but the world demands it. It should be physically impossible to curve your spine any more than this, to avoid choking when the head is tilted so back, when the leg can almost touch the neck, trembling with extortion. It should be impossible.

                But the familiar congratulation reminds everyone in the rink that it is possible.

                It is not envy that pulls Otabek’s eyes from his shoes to his competitor, if he can so call it that. Jean-Jacques flirts shamelessly with their coach, obviously proud of his flexible maneuvering. Unlike Otabek, he has no thudding fear in his heart, no uncertainty in his eyes and a lack of trembling of his hands. Instead, he maintains his half-Biellmann with the smug confidence of someone who can, and will, defeat any competition. It is almost as though he has none.

                He cannot tell Otabek feels invisible on the ice when he cannot see Otabek to begin with.

                Flexibility is something every ice skater must have; Otabek knows this. He knew it the moment his father had told him no, that dancing was for girls and not for boys, that he has the body of a   
солдат and not a skater. But he had insisted, demanded, threw a tantrum or twenty, determined to work until, tears stinging, he could almost imaging flying off the frozen water.

                Then his father shipped him off to train under a real coach, in a real rink, with real skaters, so reality could slap him in the face.

                “Otabek! Are you going to daydream forever?” Speaking of real skaters. Otabek maintains a polite smile on his face to the approach of the Canadian prodigy. Jean-Jacques, or JJ as he so insists to anyone willing to lend an ear, waves at him as he skates by, faster than he can respond. He could race to catch up, or simply skate at his own pace. Clearly, he’d rather the second option.

                “Otabek, how are you feeling lad? Good?” Left behind by Jean-Jacques, their coach finally approaches the other skaters, waving and shouting to the passing students. There are too many people in the rink, twelve, for him to truly coach, and Otabek feels that he’d rather pocket their payment than truly work with any of them. Well, any of them besides the prodigy. Otabek cannot think of a person who would reject a one-way ticket to fame.

                “Fine,” Otabek responds, even though the coach has already diverted his attention to a crying girl. Her brother crouches over her, and Jean-Jacques slows to a stop to help her up. Their coach runs off to assist, though Otabek wonders if he would care so much if his dream student was not there.

                No use worrying over it now. Otabek skates along again, ignoring the sounds of other skates blazing against the ice, strong and ready for flight.

                He is a солдат. Made for ground combat, heavy arms, and the sound of bullets.

                But he wants to fly.

-

                It is hard to take flight when your coach will not teach you how.

                “You must spin before you can jump.” There is no point in insisting that Otabek would much rather be in the air, but he tries anyway, only to be met with the same stern dismissal. “At the very least, you must be able to hold a camel spin.”

                Otabek can, though it’s a little shaky.

                The quiver in his leg is all it takes for his lesson plans to be pushed back two weeks.

                He’s behind. Otabek is all too aware; the little crying girl from last week was crying because she failed to keep her balance on the landing of a jump. Her leg is covered in a thick cast today, neon pink and covered in blue scribbles. She smiles at him in passing, asking him to write something.

                Otabek can’t remember her name, but he scrawls in a prayer anyway.

                Her happy giggle when he had finished rings in his head well after warm ups end, his legs settling into a familiar dullness. Though he had written son instead of soon, a mistake which he apologized profusely for, she had waved it off as a joke. It was the first since his introduction to the class that he had been treated so warmly.

                Perhaps that is the reason for his excess energy, throwing off another attempt at a steady spin.

                “Are you still working on that?” The question jars into his space. Otabek stumbles from his spin, taking heavy steps on the ice before swerving to meet the asker. Surprisingly, Jean-Jacques gives him a flat stare, hovering with his arms cross.

                “Yes,” Otabek nods, quickly straightening and wiping down his shirt, flashing a hopefully polite smile at the prodigy. Jean-Jacques’ look sours from bland to criticizing, giving him form a slow once over.

                “Don’t you think you should spend some time on your jumps?” Otabek resists the urge to roll his eyes; if he could, he would. Luckily, he’s had manners drilled into him from birth and he can resist the rude display in front of his talented senior. Instead, he bows his head slightly, bringing his hands to clasp in front. A show of respect.

                Jean-Jacques doesn’t look the least pleased.

                “I would like to, but the teacher has not given me permission to.” It is hard to force out the words without either a bitter undertone or an accent, and Otabek bites down on his tongue to stop the words from slurring together. That cracks Jean-Jacques’ demeanor, shifting from disapproving to surprised.

                “Why would you listen to that old bore?” A grin cracks the Canadian’s expression, mischievous, “I never do, and he’ll never complain because I always do what I say I will.” That does explain quite a bit. Otabek has little doubt that Jean-Jacques could skate circles around their instructor, if only because the man hardly strays onto the ice, preferring to call out from outside the rink.

                But this man, however unskilled, is what keeps Otabek rooted in foreign soil. No one would take a rookie skater, inflexible, unknowing of reality, but this man, running some small company in Quebec. Otabek could be in a military academy right now, learning to fight for his country like his father, his brothers, and the man before them. He could learn to serve his country with his body, and his life.

                “If we don’t listen to him, then who?” There is no tutor in their rink.

                “Whoever you want to. I always ask maman to teach me new things.”

                That is the striking distance between Otabek and Jean-Jacques. Otabek’s family is not rich, nor famous; a line borne from dedication to their country and the perseverance of a mother who cradled the remains of her children. They cannot afford to send his many siblings to a “proper” university, and he knows that he’s already been incredibly spoilt to be here. To be in this replacement of home, away from grandmother’s cooking and father’s solid yet kind voice, to be with this silly man calling himself a teacher and with children who speak a language he’s only learned from textbooks as of two months ago. He is a man without choice, no different from the grunt soldiers buried deep in enemy soil, following commands instead of their minds.

                Jean-Jacques cannot understand.

                His family is more than rich—they are of wealthy lineage. Old and new money. Coming to a country long ago during settling, giving themselves pompous names and living up to them. Jean-Jacques gets private tutors to teach him languages that Otabek cannot fathom a greeting in, reads beautifully bound books that would have never made it to Otabek’s local libraries and adorns skates that could pay for his family to travel here. He is adorned by magazine covers, celebrity sponsors, himself being one. Jean-Jacques is not a soldier, because

                “I do not have your talent.” Nor his charm, nor his parents, not his connections, but Otabek would rather focus on one issue at a time. He understands quite well what his father meant to express by sending him off. He’s learned his lesson quite well.

                Jean-Jacques is just on an unattainable level.

                There is little point in Otabek’s struggling.

                Jean-Jacques’ look drops back into a blank stare, critical, almost disappointed. Perhaps it was insulting for Otabek to point out such obvious details. Maybe Jean-Jacques just wanted to make their difference clear.

                Point proven.

                “My talent.” The words are less a question than a cold rephrasing. It is surprising from the normally upbeat prodigy. Perhaps Otabek really was rude.

                “Yes, you are by far the most talented person here. I could only dream of such ability. It is clear that your reputation as a prodigy is true,” better to compliment than to be booted from the rink. Jean-Jacques is the favored student, after all. If he truly wanted it, he might be able to get Otabek expelled from the country.

                Rather than take his flattery, Jean-Jacques gives him a look bordering on icy. He takes a step away, then another, dismissal clear. Otabek nods at him, his fingers folding into each other, making sure to avoid the other’s eyes. It is better this way—to look harmless.

                “Right, prodigy.” The word is spat like an insult, but Jean-Jacques misses the surprise flickering over Otabek’s face as he turns away, feet already twisting out. “Whatever. Have fun with your spins.”

                Otabek watches him go, talking to every other skater he passes. By the time their coach calls them for a lunch break, Jean-Jacques has spoken to everyone at least two times, complimenting seven of the twelve. He even messes with the hair of the girl, laughing as she bats away his hand. They all exit the ice except Jean-Jacques, claiming that he has energy to burn.

                Otabek has little doubt, with how much the other had simply stood and chatted with others. It is hard to imagine how one can perform so well with little effort, but he is a prodigy after all.

                If Otabek had been born with such skill

                Well, maybe he’d be amongst the clouds.

-

                There is a letter in Otabek’s locker. No envelope, and the paper it is written on was wrinkled, a large awkward crease in the middle where the person obviously tried folding it in half before realizing it was not straight. Regardless, Otabek treats the few words on it seriously.

                _Come in thirty minutes early._

                He looks around the locker room, but no one heeds his glances. The sibling duo chat on the end of the bench, followed by two young girls who come into class with matching outfits every day. Otabek would assume them sisters if one did not have bright blonde hair, the other black. Then there is a group of boys who are playing some video game, fixated on their consoles, half-dressed. Otabek stands at the end next to another quiet boy who has finished changing, packing his clothes into his backpack carefully. Not a person returns his confused look.

                A prank, or a misplaced paper, most likely.

                He could ignore the letter.

-

                “I was starting to think that I put it in the wrong locker.”

                Otabek had not been expecting Jean-Jacques, yet the reveal doesn’t manage to shock him. Instead he nods in greeting, unsure if this early call is a friendly move, or an aggressive one after yesterday’s passing. There could be secret cameras installed into the rink to capture the moment police swarm onto the ice, catching Otabek unawares and shipping him back to Kazakhstan, not a shred of talent, fame or money to his name.

                The impatient look Jean-Jacques gives him is more realistic than him snapping his finger to summon Canada’s national guards, but the possible threat lingers over Otabek’s head, and he quickly scurries forward to the side of the ice. He’s late already, even though it was mostly because the security wanted to check his ID first.

                “Good Morning,” Otabek greets, careful as he slides onto the familiar rink. The ice has been scratched up, ridges worn into the ground before Otabek’s feet. Had the man who drove the ice resurfacer not come in for the day?

                “Morning,” the icy cold from yesterday is gone, Jean-Jacques grins warmly at Otabek from center rink. He twirls in place with a casual ease, though there is a red flush along his cheeks, and his breathing is heavy. “I hope you’ve warmed up.”

                Otabek has not, and he hastens to fix the issue. He’s still on basic leg stretches when the sharp screech of blade against ice hits his ear, and he turns just in time to see the prodigy fall into a slid.

                “Are you alright?” The words ring in the silence, and it takes a moment for Otabek to register the question as his own. Jean-Jacques doesn’t reply, already up and skirting around the edges of the rink. Otabek watches him this time, eyes steady on the moving form even as he bends over to reach his toes.

                Jean-Jacques’ skates squeak, his feet scissor, and then he’s in flight.

                Otabek stares.

                When Jean-Jacques lands, he does not skid into a fall. Instead, the grin on his face is infectious, and Otabek feels warmth bloom in his face, heat climbing from his neck to his ears. It is not envy that suddenly clings to his skin.

                “Did you see?” Otabek nods, uncertain of his voice. It doesn’t seem to matter to the other, already spiraling the rink again, taking steps with a careless ease. Jean-Jacques laughs to nobody, and when his legs scissor out again, Otabek freezes to watch.

                It is silly to love anything by part. Everything has its ups and downs, and Otabek knows better than to love only a fraction of anything, anyone. But it is so much easier to say than to do, and the sight of a body becoming airborne drives air from his lungs, the cold air in the rink away, and he cannot help the tremor that overtakes his hands. Father had always said he had an active imagination. Even on the floor, Otabek feels the familiar joy bubble upward, seeing the very thing that had pulled him to the sport in the first place. Seeing someone simply come alive in the air. Seeing someone fly.

                Otabek can almost taste the crisp air, only few centimeters above where he normally reaches, though a completely separate caliber.

                The sound of skates hitting the ice is a jolt.

                Jean-Jacques does not ask him his opinion this time. Concentration sweeps over his face, eyes pinched as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. The sound of his skates is harsh, faster than Otabek had ever watched him practice. He abruptly switches from circling to steps, sharp quick thuds that drive Otabek’s heartbeat upwards. By the time Jean-Jacques finishes his impromptu routine, Otabek has yet to warm his back.

                “Slowpoke, or was I just too amazing?” Jean-Jacques peers over the side of the rink, eying Otabek’s struggling form as he tries to stretch. He gives two pathetic attempts at straightening his back before sighing, climbing back to his original position.

                “You are very talented,” Otabek compliments, dusting off the dirt from his knees as he stands. The floor that they practice on is dirty, as the rink is open to the public every afternoon, and most people have no qualms about trekking dirt into the carpets. Jean-Jacques waits until he’s fully up and nearing the ice to reply.

                “You want to skate, or are you going to talk about measuring talent all day?” Otabek doesn’t need to be fluent in English to understand that the question is a jab. Jean-Jacques’ look turns searing, and by the time Otabek steps onto the ice he has already flown off.

                It is different to be on a mostly empty rink. Here, without a teacher, without a class, it is only Otabek and Jean-Jacques. His steps are slow, hovering by the edge of the rink, ensuring to not get in the other’s way. Jean-Jacques doesn’t spare a second; dodging Otabek with practiced ease. Otabek waits for something to be said, some instruction or reasoning for why they are in the rink without their coach, but Jean-Jacques doesn’t look at him once.

                It is suddenly as if Otabek is alone on the ice.

                No one to watch, no one to see. Otabek takes faster steps, sliding on the melting surface. The silence of the rink can be filled in by the mind—a mall full of bustling customers the days before Christmas, where his little sister had demanded to try ice skating. He can see the tall building winking down at the local park where the lake had frozen over, and his father rented out three pairs of skates for them. Otabek had crashed into his second eldest brother, laughing when a handful of snow was shoved into his face for retaliation. Then the day that he had heard from a classmate that their sibling was a figure skating competitor, training to one day probably represent their country in the Olympics. The thought was nothing more than a passing daydream, but Otabek had caught the ideal in his fingers and refused to let it go.

                He hears his skates jar against the ice and then the setting switches to when his grandma had skated the rink. She had surprised them all, spinning on her skates like a dance. Otabek had trailed after her, curious, awed, and then he had saw her wink. Then he saw her fly.

                Otabek wants that. But there are steps, training movements like learning to run, and he must first concentrate on his walk. On his spins. He breathes in the sights and smells of burnt flour and salted meat from the street stalls on Christmas eve, and imagines the first time he had watched his father’s eyes widen when he was on the ice. He remembers the warm hands that had clasped his own, even as he approached the security that would take him away from his family. He remembers his father’s smile, so gentle on that stern face. How odd it would have looked if Otabek hadn’t yearned for it his entire life.

                How odd it is that he can recall the firm touch of his father’s hand on his shoulder, proud.

                “You are good.”

                The immersion breaks, friendly chatter and the scent of sweetbread and barbeque floating away from the cold rink, empty chairs and the sound of another blade tracing patterns into the ice. Otabek startles from his spin, mind dizzying as the present falls back down. It is so cold that he can imagine frost chipping away at his lashes, snowflakes coating the tops of his lip. There is no snow.

                Otabek slows to a still next to Jean-Jacques.

                “I didn’t tell you to stop,” Jean-Jacques rolls his eyes, uninterested in manners. He comes to a stop near Otabek, giving the other a fresh look over. “You never skate like that during class.”

                “It is not in my lesson plan,” Otabek mumbles, then repeats in a louder tone. Mother used to scold him for being too quiet as a child, scaring away potential friends with his moody appearance. He doubts a little silence would bother the prodigy before him.

                “Didn’t I say—never mind. New lesson plan,” Otabek raises an eyebrow; Jean-Jacques talks on, “you’re good enough to start jumps. I’ll teach you toe loop.”

                “The teacher,” Otabek starts and then the words settle while his stomach flips. Jumps. Something must show on his face because Jean-Jacques smirks, tossing his hair back and skating away as Otabek follows. Jumps. What Jean-Jacques should really be saying is flight.

                “Otabek? Is that you? And Jean-Jacques! What did I say about early use of the rink?” Otabek stumbles, jerking away at the ringing voice of their coach, angrily stomping downward. Jean-Jacques just crosses his arm, rolls his eyes and skates circles around Otabek, corralling him until they’re in the center of the rink and their coach’s sneakers hit the side of the rink.

                “I’m sorry, I—”

                “Don’t worry about it, coach! I’ve got it covered,” the prodigy grins, winking as he hooks an arm around Otabek. It’s hard not to yelp and pull away at the contact; instead, Otabek quivers in place and hopes he’ll make it out of this in one piece. Maybe he intended to have them caught, have Otabek in trouble, promising him something he cannot give.

                The coach looks them both over before sighing, lazily waving them off as he returns to the entrance, probably to let the rest of the students in.

                Jean-Jacques squeezes Otabek’s shoulder, just once, before pulling away.

                “Tomorrow,” he promises, “I’ll teach you then.”

                Otabek spends the next two hours wondering what it’s like to see the world from above.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek faceplants

                 Flying, Otabek learns, is really, really hard.

                He spends more time crashing into the ice than in the air, something that scratches and burns at his will to learn. But every time he falls his eyes close, bracing for impact, in that tiny slip of time, that millisecond before he hits

                The air is smoldering, tiny crystals of ice buffeting his face and swirling upward, painting blue and white into his skin. His eyes sting, pain shooting up from his legs through his spine and up, burning his lungs and it hurts enough to cry. His arms feel blank, suspended, and his stomach lurches, heat and cold clashing and tearing inside, ravaging a feeling that he should call succ

                                                                                                                                   the

                ess. The rink fades away to black, a blankness that simply echoes the noise of his skates just before he’s off, floating, flying in the empty. The ice melts away, the fire dulls and then he is simply there. Otabek feels himself breathe, feels the air whoosh out of his lungs and then his eyes blink open, particles of light broaching the blank and he sees

                                                                                                                                                                                                   ice.

                Otabek groans, running a hand through his hair, feeling a soreness across his nose and his right cheek. It’s red, probably, from landing on that side of his face too often. The Canadian skater has given up chastising him on safe landing, instead circling the rink. Otabek heaves, feeling the world spin, pressing a hand against his stomach. He pushes onward to his knees, and the world blinks in and out of existence.

                “Hey.”

                It’s the prodigy, staring down at him. The lights overhead the rink are blinding, white lights drowning out the features on Jean-Jacques’ face. Otabek squints, feeling his vision swim, and the prodigy frowns, probably, maybe. It feels like he should be frowning.

                Otabek stands. Kind of. The ground moves upward and there’s a high-pitched sound and then a sharp shriek against the ice. The world steadies itself and then Jean-Jacques is closer, mouth moving and Otabek groans again, head suddenly pounding. He tries to steady his weight to the center of his body, and closes his eyes.

                “I—know—maman, please.”

                He’s on the phone frantically talking in a language Otabek doesn’t know when he opens his eyes. They’re not on the rink, too warm. His head hurts, sweat beading at his forehead, seeping into his clothing. Jean-Jacques says something again, another frown tugging at his lips. His eyes narrow, maybe, Otabek isn’t certain but it’s not a bad look for him. Jean-Jacques finally notices him looking, and says something sharp.

                Otabek doesn’t know a lick of French, but it sounds lovely.

                “I called maman. She’ll bring you to a, ah, hospital,” he says hospital like Otabek says “hello”, rough and awkward and not at all his language. Otabek stares blankly until the words translate in his head. When they register, he jerks, but all it does is create a harsh pounding in his head.

                Otabek manages a feeble ow at the pain. He wants to actually say something useful, but his head hurts and the lights sting his eyes and then the other is speaking in French again. His voice is higher in French, just a few notes, but he sounds like a different person. If Otabek closes his eyes again, he can pretend that’s the voice of his instructor, holding his hand, taking a step into the air and pulling Otabek to do the same. Then they’re off, one foot then another, walking into the sky, and the voice rumbles, taking one hand and combing it through his hair. Otabek takes in a shallow breath, feeling the world spin again, into ice, into fire, into blank, an emptiness suddenly coated in gentle.

                Sweet. Kind.

                The hand brushes his ear, and Otabek lets that breath go in a sigh. His sister used to do this, when he was younger. When he cried more easily, when he scared more often. When father needed to stand there and hold his hand, because he was too scared to step onto the escalator.

                Otabek remembers that again, so acutely, the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. The look on his father’s face when he stepped away, stepped through the gate. How fast his hand waved at his dad, not far gone enough to understand that he was leaving his family. Otabek was leaving home to a country far, far away.

                It would be his first time on a plane. Flying, yet not quite.

                A finger scratches at his temple.

                Otabek falls asleep.

-

                A concussion.

                Coach, teacher, the man with the clipboard, tells Otabek to take the day off. Then the rest of the week, and Otabek refuses, stubborn, because his lesson plans have been pushed back enough. His teacher doesn’t take it, doesn’t listen and Otabek is angry, frustrated, tears dotting his eyes when prodigy walks up and tells him to go. Tells him to get up and walk out, feet heavy on the ground. Tells him to walk away when he can’t take that first step off the floor.

                Otabek turns around, and leaves.

                Jean-Jacques’ mother picked him up.

                She’s an angel, surely. Otabek’s never had someone over his place, a small dinky “studio” that barely fits him with his furniture, a bed and a dresser that doubles as a table. A small folding chair that sits in his closet when he’s not using it. Mrs. Leroy looks them all over with a fierceness that reminds Otabek of his grandmother, and when he drowns into the black she is still in his studio.

                When Otabek resurfaces, there is soup cooking, the smell of chicken and onion and celery in the air. He breathes until his lungs are stuffed with the scent of health, and Mrs. Leroy comes to comfort him when his heaves become too heavy. His head spins a second time, tinted with chicken, and she holds his hand. Hers are rough, and Otabek can barely trace the lines of old callouses. He wants to ask, but then she’s up again, pouring him a cup of ice water. He can’t bring himself to.

                Otabek drinks the water, then a bowl of soup. She cleans his bedroom.

                With blurry eyes, Otabek can almost see his mother. She smiles at him, back in second grade, his first time sick at school. He had puked in the hallway. Mother had picked him up, holding him to her bosom, covering him in thick blankets back at home. She cooked him something he can’t remember, but it had been fragrant. He had thrown it all up again later, but she was never mad. Never scolding. Instead, she had put a hand on his neck, sliding up until it combed through his hair.

                Otabek thinks about a finger scratching his ear.

                He falls asleep again.

-

                Otabek comes to class an hour early.

                His skin crawls, his fingers hurt from unused. Father used to chastise him for this—the way energy built in him. The way his head would swim not from fatigue but lack of usage. His sister called him a battery close to exploding.

                His neck prickles, itchy. He certainly feels like bursting.

                Otabek walks into the rink.

                Jean-Jacques smashes into him.

                “What are you doing here!” Otabek groans, rubbing his butt. The Canadian had crashed straight into his right side, and then they had both fallen to the ground. Jean-Jacques had risen immediately, now barking furious words at him. “Otabek! You should be at home, sleeping.”

                Otabek blinks his eyes open, warily.

                “Um,” it’s too early for this, his body too warm, “I came to practice. Jumping.” Flying. “Hello.”

                Jean-Jacques crosses his arms. Otabek is suddenly reminiscent of when he had been approached, just so many days before.

                “Hi.” His voice is icy, cold, and Otabek frowns. Then he shouldn’t, because this is the person who had helped him. He could have, would have, been in trouble if Otabek had been in the hospital alone. But he wasn’t.

                Instead, he was whisked to his temporary home in this temporary land, by a mother who was not his.

                “Your mom,” maman, he knows now, “is nice.”

                Jean-Jacques relaxes a fraction, though he does not budge. He stares down Otabek with a vigor that clashes with the fire burning in his stomach, demanding him to do something, anything, when Jean-Jacques sighs. Gets on his knees, up, sliding dangerously close to Otabek until he’s back on his feet.

                “I don’t want to see you do any jumps today.” Prodigy or not, he’s not Otabek’s teacher. He’s just another kid, another stupid person drowning in desires, another person who wants to get his feet off the ground and soar. Except he’s not, not when he can fly and Otabek cannot. Not when it is his hand that emerges from the clouds, just enough for Otabek to wrap around his thumb and haul upwards. Just enough to make Otabek’s head swim at the sight of his body in the air.

                “Okay.”

                Jean-Jacques smiles, and Otabek feels like he can fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but I really wanted the concussion stuff in one thing. It felt longer while writing!  
> My personal part is when Otabek faceplants lol... it's okay.

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be uploaded as a really long oneshot but I ultimately decided to turn it into 3 chapters. The slow burn is real, and Otabek kind of goes through a different development of his impressions on himself, the ice and JJ in every chapter.  
> I hope you like it!
> 
> солдат is soldier in Russian.


End file.
